Slivers and Shards
by Sciadoe
Summary: Bobby angst.


A/N: My original pen name on here was Topaz Twilights, but I've since lost access to that account.  
>This is a one shot.<p>

Every mirror in his apartment was broken; he hated what he saw in them. Ever since his mothers psychotic break, Bobby had slumped into a depression. It was rare that he felt sorry for himself, because he never really saw the point. But when he'd gotten home that night and glimpsed himself in the mirror, he snapped.

The first mirror, built into the wall behind the front door, he'd kicked, furiously. When that wasn't enough he used a baseball bat,which he usually kept in the closet. When it was demolished to his liking, he went to the bathroom, giving that mirror the same treatment before flinging the bat into the tub. Fighting tears, also a rarity, Bobby slumped into his bedroom, where he began shedding his clothes. He removed his coat and tossed it carelessly to the floor, kicking it under the bed. As he loosened his tie and pulled it over his head, his mind wandered and he thought of his mother. Tied down, drugged, and afraid. Probably crying. He shook his head, trying to clear it from his mind, and his eyes fell upon the smooth glass of the mirror above his dresser. Intact.

Taking a deep breath, he stared at his reflection, and was actually surprised at what he saw. This man who looked back at him had once been a stranger. A man who was haunted by all the things that had ever mattered to him. A man who, despite good deeds on the job, could never do enough to make a difference. Not to the world, and not to himself.

The image before him was startling. He'd been a different man for many months, actually capable of a pleasant thought here and there. Bobby sighed, knowing that for several months, he'd been a stones throw closer to sanity. Things had been better. He'd been able to keep himself company wihtout letting all his own shit swallow him whole. With Alex's help, he'd found that there were, in fact, things to be happy about. He'd found new ways to amuse himself. He'd been a different person.

And as he stared shamefully at the dissheveled image of himself, it all came flooding back. All the memories, all the faces, and hard as he tried, he couldn't fight it. The judge's voice flooded his head, raping his mind, and he felt dirty again. Covering his eyes he shook his head fiercely. But still the voices came.

"Full of spite for his dead father"  
>No, he thought, no. That's well placed anger.<br>"Won't lift a finger to help his gambling addict brother"  
>What could he do? He was barely standing on his own feet.<br>"His mother... he keeps her locked up in a psych ward"  
>'It's better for her!' he thought, and wanted to scream, pounding his fists on the dresser. 'I can't do it all'<br>Crazy, he thought. That's what everyone's afraid to say. Afraid I'll snap.

He'd opened his eyes and the man was still there, his eyes red. 'Weakling,' he thought, as a burning started in his stomach and moved up his. His cheeks flushed and his heart raced and he didn't know what was happening until his fist hit the glass and it shattered around him, falling in pieces to the floor.

For several minutes he was still, his knuckles pressed against the naked wooden back of the mirror. It was as if he was waiting for his mind to catch up with his body and realize what he'd done. It didn't happen until he saw the blood trickling down the wood, and he pulled his hand back. Upon examining it, he found that his knuckles were cut all over, tiny knicks, as well as a deep gash that had somehow found its way to the back of his hand, just behind his knuckles.

His eyes were wide in disbelief and once again, he felt he was nearing his breaking point. He looked around him and was clouded with shame. What he'd done was not like him. No, not like him at all. His head throbbed painfully and he felt as though his head was locked inside a drum. The light hurt his head and looked down, but as his eyes moved over the broken glass at his feet, he immediately wished he hadn't.

He saw what he was afraid he really was. In each shard and sliver before him, he saw all of his faults and failures. Tears spilled from his eyes and he didn't care, trying only to catch his breath between sobs. The shame of it all took him over at once and he had to get away.

As a child, when he was frightened or just wanted to be alone, he would hide in his closet. So it just made sense to him when he found himself in the dark corner, pulling the door until it was open only a crack. Drawing his knees up to his chest and cradling his left hand between his stomach and his legs, he wished Alex were there. Though he was afraid she'd freak out once she saw what he had done, somehow, just being with her always seemed to make him feel better. Safer. He never understood just how close to insanity he was until he was away from her and left in the grips of his own tainted mind.

Alex was the only person who had ever taken the time to understand and know him. Despite the fact that he was dancing on a thin line between coping and crazy, he knew that as long as Alex was there, she wouldn't let him fall. That knowledge put him one step closer to sane and safe inside his own head.  
>Sleep seized him, and he lay curled up in the closet floor, hoping for a time when he could be by himself, and know true peace.<p> 


End file.
